I had a book deadline that came just before Christmas, so I plunged myself into that project as soon as the election was over. I think that book acted like a sort of morphine to help dull the immediate pain of the loss. But the book is over, and here I sit in Tennessee getting calendar alerts for an event I won’t attend.

This notice was like a ghost which might visit someone during the night. The ghost of what might have been. The ghost of seven years of work. The ghost of cultural decay camouflaged by tuxedos, evening gowns, pearls, champagne.